by Byron Lane
Everyone laughs. It’s the usual charmer.
But tonight I spot a new face in the crowd.
He says, “Hi. I’m Drew.”
I say, “Hi. I’m Charlie.”
He says, “Nice to meet you, pal.”
“Pal?”
“Yeah, I bet I’m the last guy in the world who still uses that word, and I think it’s a shame.”
I say, “Alas.”
And he smiles.
And he gets it.
And just like that, chemistry, that old but familiar feeling, one I haven’t felt in a while. It’s old-school style, meeting Drew, meeting this other human face-to-face at a party. No computer between us to hold us back like glass between prisoner and visitor.
Drew is cute in a kind of Scooter-from-the-Muppets sort of way. He’s a friend of someone here at this party, someone he quickly ditched so he could hang with me. Drew writes screenplays. He’s in a writers’ group. He’s got a cat named Lucifer.
He says, “So, you work for Kathi Kannon? That’s a cool job!”
I say, “Sometimes.”
He says, “Tell me everything, pal!”
Pal.
I’m thinking, What would Kathi Kannon think of him?
I take Drew back to my place. My apartment isn’t the prison it once was; I’m actually starting to be proud of my small, humble home. It no longer needs to be dark and depressing, no longer needs a blackout curtain as mood lighting. Now I dust. I clean. The pay from Kathi is helping me get my head above financial water, so I treated myself to a new small sofa. I added some bookshelves. I bought new sheets and a new comforter for the first time in ten years.
“You moving?” Drew asks, eyeing the boxes Dad sent me.
“No. It’s a long story. My mom is in there, basically.”
“Oh, okay. That’s not weird at all. Let’s make out!”
We crash on the sofa and writhe. I consider covering the boxes just in case Mom can see. But who has the time?
I fantasize about Kathi coming to my apartment. Maybe one time when she’s in the neighborhood? Maybe one time she needs to stop by to get something—sugar, coffee, validation? I find myself wondering, what will she think of how I live? Will she, like Drew, also judge my mother’s unopened boxes in my living room? In my fantasy, I give her the tour of the three hundred square feet: Here’s my kitchen, where I cook. Here’s my closet, where I keep the clothes you bought me. Here’s my bed, where my dates and I cuddle and I tell stories about you, the fun things, how you’re hilarious, how you’re kind, how you’re my friend.
Drew and I rush to the bed, our clothes falling on the floor in piles like we’re raptured, our bodies sweating and pumping. But this time, I use a condom, because for the first time in a while, I now feel like I have a life worth protecting.
* * *
“I miss you when you’re not here,” Kathi says from the warmth of her bedding as I wake her on a Monday morning. “It’s been a long weekend with no Cockring.”
Assistant Bible Verse 126: Always keep them wanting more.
Sleep, bake, Vegas—Cockring—repeat.
“Did you take your meds today?”
“Yezzzzzzz.”
“Want to write today?”
“Noooooooo.”
“Everything okay?”
Kathi looks at me. “I’m so tired, Cockring. Tired of thinking all the time. Tired of worrying all the time. Tired of feeling like I’m never good enough. I’m not skinny enough. I’m not in enough movies. I don’t have enough money. I’m just so tired. I just want to do nothing. I just wanna think about nothing, but meditation escapes me and I don’t look great with a beard.”
I pat her on the shoulder. “Acting?” I ask.
Kathi rolls from bed, hair like an anime character. “Hey, I need you to drive me to a friend’s house to pick up something. The street is under construction, so it’s a bitch to park. That okay?”
“Sure!” I say, excited to do something instead of sitting around. “Want to brush your hair before we go?”
“No, I don’t.”
She’s already mostly dressed, probably in the clothes from yesterday but that’s fine. She hands me her keys, Mom’s locket shining in the morning sun. I rub it, the warmth entering my thumb and radiating through my body, like I’m hugging an old friend. “I can’t believe you haven’t lost or broken this yet.”
“Broken what? My neck?”
“No, the locket.”
“What locket?” she asks.
My hand drops, the keys jingling by my side. “Are you kidding me? Like, ages ago when you were manic I gave you this—my mother’s locket.”
“A locket? Like from Annie?”
“No!” I snap, then, “Well, yeah, kinda. A little.”
Kathi approaches and looks at the key ring. “Oh, yeah,” she says. “I wondered where that came from.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, shaking my head. “Is nothing sacred?”
“Everything. Which means nothing.”
Our ride to West Hollywood leads us through the greens of Beverly Hills to the even more colorful gay bars and sex stores of Santa Monica Boulevard. At a red light, I notice Kathi looking at a store selling bondage gear.
“You need some whips and stuff?” I ask.
“Definitely,” she says.
“I knew you were dirty.”
She says matter-of-factly, “Yeah. I can’t even cum unless I see blood.”
As the light turns green and the world outside our car windows becomes a blur again, I exhale and clear my throat. “Speaking of. I met someone.”
Kathi slowly looks over at me. “Speaking of cum or blood or both?”
“I met a guy,” I say.
“Oh, God.”
“What? Are you horrified? Or you can’t believe it?”
“No. It’s just, relationships are dangerous for assistants,” she says.
“You don’t want me to get hurt?”
“No, I don’t want you to quit working for me!” she yells. “Blythe Danner thought it would be cute to introduce her little assistant to a designer she loved and then the designer and the assistant fell in love and then the assistant quit to go live an exciting gay romantic life in Paris or somewhere greasy and meantime Blythe can’t find someone competent to take his place and who’s going to help her eat?! It also happened to Mary Steenburgen. And Faye Dunaway, but that’s also because she once sprayed her assistant with the hose for asking to come inside to use her restroom.”
Assistant Bible Verse 127: It’s hard to live your own life and also live theirs. It’s hard to service two people at once.
“But I’m happy for you,” Kathi says.
“Thanks?”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Drew and he’s a writer.”
“Ugh,” she says.
“What?! His name is dumb?”
“No. Writers.”
“Should I avoid dating a writer?”
“What kind of writer?” she asks, fumbling with the AC vent like she needs air urgently.
“Screenwriter.”
“Ugh! Run!”
“Really?”
“Anything I’ve seen?” she asks.
“No. He sold a couple scripts to Lifetime, but they haven’t been made yet.”
“Oh, you’re probably fine, then. Try it,” Kathi says. “I haven’t had much luck with writers in the love department. Of course, I haven’t had much luck with anyone. Tell me more about him and we can judge him accordingly.”
“Well, he’s—”
“Not right now, though, Cockring. Can we do it later?”
“Sure,” I say cheerfully, as GPS guides us down a beautiful side street to a bright-orange apartment building. “Where are we?”
Kathi looks ahead with no joy, no focus. “Vegas.”
“Vegas?” I ask, confused, trying to understand.
“I’ll be right back,” Kathi says, getting out of the car and slamming the door.<
br />
“Vegas?” I yell again to her from inside the car. I’m thinking, She must be joking.
As she walks away from me, the sunshine streaming down between tree branches, the light reflecting off car windshields, and Kathi Kannon’s body almost illuminated, I think of the Shine. I savor the thought of my life brightened by her. And as she makes her way into someone’s apartment, vanishing behind some cheap door in some cheap complex, I feel a sudden disconnect.
Assistant Bible Verse 128: Never leave their side.
I feel a sensation of being out of place—both me and her.
The glow of her is gone, the spell broken. I wonder, Where are we? I wonder, Where is she?
The Shine, I feel it, I feel it fading.
11
Hey, Siri, I’m carrying a purple leather backpack full of cash. I signed Miss Gracie’s ledger and she handed me three gallon-sized Ziploc bags full of vegetable money. “This is ten thousand dollars, dear. Don’t give it to Kathi or else she’ll waste it. And if you steal any of it, I will prosecute and I will seek the death penalty.”
Kathi has been restless at home, and Miss Gracie suggested using veggie money to do some traveling and relaxing. Kathi jumped at the idea and sent me down to Miss Gracie with this purple bag to collect the dough. Kathi said she hated the generic backpack I’ve owned since college. She asked me to use this new purple one for work from now on. It perfectly holds all the money, like it was made not for books or gym clothes, but for cash.
I hate to brag, but it’s all I want to do. I want to boast about my new life with Kathi, boast about the money, the celebrities, the upcoming trips: New York, Indonesia, Australia, Japan.
Assistant Bible Verse 129: Pack sunscreen, aspirin, speculum.
Roger gave me specific instructions, showing me exactly how much Miss Gracie expects us to spend on tipping, et cetera. The big expenses—lodging and airfare—are all covered. The cash is already converted to local currency: rupiahs, Australian dollars, yen. They’re already broken into fives and tens and twenties, based on Miss Gracie’s estimation of how many cars we will need, how many meals we will eat, how many bellmen we will need to bribe. Miss Gracie has it down to an art.
Booking lodging was simple. Kathi once did some script doctoring for a wealthy woman who owns a timeshare in Bali and paid Kathi with visitation rights in perpetuity. So Kathi is making a trip of it—and while we’re over there, Kathi reasoned, let’s see Sydney and Tokyo. And on our way out there, we’ll stop in New York for good measure.
Pack scarves, Christmas lights, glitter. Kathi likes to bring the party with her and uses scarves over hotel lamps to set a mood, Christmas lights—as many as we can fit in the luggage—for ambiance, and, of course, glitter, always. I stuff everything into her luggage—two big antique red trunks with leather straps; even her suitcases are interesting.
Booking airfare was easy. I called her travel agent, provided the destinations, got flight options. Kathi picked the flights, and the travel agent bought us two first-class seats next to each other. Kathi always buys a first-class seat for me. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s being kind to me or if she just prefers falling asleep and drooling on me instead of a stranger.
“Are you ready to do some relaxing?” I ask cheerfully as the first leg of our journey begins out of LAX.
“God, Cockring,” Kathi says, “bring it down a notch.”
“Did you take your meds today?”
“Yup.”
Pack Seroquel, Suboxone, Lamictal.
* * *
Kathi Kannon stops in New York like normal people stop at a gas station. She’s here to refuel, to fully charge, to fill up—just for one night. We leave tomorrow for real adventure, to Bali, but first, Big Apple.
“Checking in,” I tell the front desk clerk at the Greenwich Hotel.
“What’s the name?” she asks.
I lean in close, raise my eyebrows, and say, “Aurora Borealis.”
The clerk smiles faintly, looks down at her computer, then says, “Ah, yes.”
Kathi steps up to the front desk. “I just want to confirm that my room is bigger than his, please?”
“Of course,” the clerk says, tapping away at her keyboard, and then, “Yes, I can confirm it is.” The clerk grins, thrilled to have inserted herself in the little joke. Kathi and I stare at her seriously. The thing about Kathi having a bigger room, it’s only barely a joke.
I put Kathi in her room—large, bright, airy, as promised. Kathi gets a deluxe suite with sitting area and bathtub. We drape her scarves over the lamps, turning the room from white to peach and blue and purple. We string Christmas lights from one side of the headboard to the other. The glitter stays in her toiletry bag, for emergencies only.
The hotel is peak luxury. All items in every room are curated, even in my room. The sofa is an antique; you can see the outline of the old springs imprinted in the velvet cushion. Books on the built-in shelves are hardcover literature, frayed edges telling the tales of their storied lives, stories within stories within stories. There’s a tiny brass lamp with a crooked little bend that makes it look like a character from a Pixar cartoon; it looks like the little lamp is waving to me, welcoming me. I want to take it home.
Snap: I take a picture to email to Jasmine, Bruce, West. “Even the lamps in NYC are cool!”
Snap: I take a picture of Kathi’s bathtub to email my dad. “Mom would have loved this, right?”
Snap: I take a picture of my king-sized bed to email Drew. “Wish you were here.”
Hey, Siri, I’m thinking, everyone’s gonna be really impressed now.
Later, a housekeeper mentions that Bradley Cooper is working out in the hotel gym. Kathi races down in a knit Chanel sweater and Miu Miu ballerinas and casually hops on a treadmill beside him. I watch from the towel station as she cranes her neck to make eye contact with him. He smiles politely. She makes her move. “What’s a guy like you doing in a gal like me?” she says seductively. He grimaces.
“Oh, shit. Did I fuck up the saying?” she asks.
He nods.
“Ah, fuck it,” she says, maneuvering off the treadmill, leaving it running empty beside him. He turns to watch her walk away with me rushing behind her.
Like Rite Aid is a vortex of tragedy, the Greenwich Hotel is a vortex of celebrity.
Later that evening, Mel Gibson sidles up beside Kathi while she’s ordering a Coke Zero at the hotel bar. “Hey, I know you!” he says.
“You do?” Kathi says coyly. “Are you an actoooor?”
“Sometimes,” he says. “Can you tell because you recognize me from some hit motion picture?”
“No,” Kathi says, grabbing her Coke Zero and turning to leave. “I can tell by your veneers.”
Later, Ewan McGregor walks by and spots Kathi, looks at me with her, and says, “Hello.”
I say to him, “Hi. I loved you in Trainspotting, Velvet Goldmine, Moulin Rouge! You’re such a talent, a genius, a star. Great to meet you!”
Kathi swallows a gulp of Coke Zero and says to him, “I was just looking at your penis on Google.”
Seconds of small chat later and Ewan moves on to another group of admirers.
“Feeling relaxed, enchanted, entertained?” I ask Kathi.
“I’m bored,” she says.
* * *
Film icon Kathi Kannon has it all: fame, money, tooth pain.
Kathi started to complain about something being wrong, in steady progression, from the time we left New York, to getting on the plane, to getting off it twenty hours later in Indonesia, of all places to be unwell.
Bali, that elusive paradise I’ve only seen on the screen saver at my old news job, I’m now seeing with my own eyes, breathing the air, appreciating the ocean view to my right and the homeless child begging for food to my left. Surely there are doctors here.
By now my senses are trained on Kathi Kannon. I see problems before she does. It’s in my best interest to stop anything before it advances, progresses, en
traps. I hear her sniffle, I buy Claritin. A scratchy sound in her throat, I buy cough drops. Not using a roll of toilet paper fast enough, I buy laxatives.
“Do we have any Tylenol?” Kathi asks. “My tooth is killing me.”
Is it? I wonder. I haven’t seen the signs. I haven’t seen her rubbing her face, flexing her mouth. Is she angling for meds? Is this getting too close to the sun? Is this what Miss Gracie was talking to me about?
Of course I packed Tylenol. I packed Advil. I packed water-purification tablets.
Assistant Bible Verse 130: Being an assistant is tricky at home and even worse on the road.
If you want to really know someone, travel with them.
I reach into the purple backpack. I hand her two Tylenol.
She says, “Four please.”
“But your pancreas!”
She says, “I don’t think I have one. Wasn’t it removed in the nineties?”
“I don’t know.”
She says, “I hope we survive Bali.”
I don’t know exactly what she wants to survive or what she fears might not survive: Our relationship? Our lives?
The sweet driver, in broken, shattered English, asks where we’re from.
Kathi replies, “Space. But, unfortunately, my home planet was blown up. I’m still upset about it.”
The driver nods in polite, confused agreement. Kathi turns to me. “Distract me from the pain of living.”
“How?” I ask sincerely.
“Are you having…” And she pauses, playfully rolling around in her mind what to say next, considering the many words in her inner thesaurus she wants to use to punctuate her sentence. “Are you having … sex?”
“Oh, please,” I say.
If you want to really know someone, travel with them.
“Because I’m not. As you probably know,” she says. “And at least one of us should. So, how’s your lover?”
“Drew? Is he my lover? I don’t know. I’ve never been in a serious relationship.”
“You’ve never been in a serious relationship?!” she asks. “Why not? We all deserve to live that fucking nightmare at least once in our lives.”
“Haven’t found the right person, I guess.”
